One Person
by Itzika
Summary: He's one person. He can't handle knowing all this. Episode tag to "Fata Morgana". Sequel to/set in the 'verse of "If She'd Known..."


Title: One Person

Title: One Person  
Rating: PG  
Characters: Will Zimmerman, The Morrigan  
Warnings: MAJOR spoilers for "Fata Morgana", light language, only barely proofread because I'm tired and going to bed--which is your other warning, btw  
Summary: One person isn't supposed to know all this.  
Disclaimer: Don't own.  
Feedback: Is adored beyond all reason.

It's harder than it would seem to play dumb. With awareness of those 'keepers' pounding at his senses, it's all he can do to stay focused on the here-and-now. He wants to _tell_ her, about the keepers and what they're guarding and why they're there in the first place. He wants to open his mouth and let the words and feelings and senses and awareness all spill out.

One person isn't supposed to know all this.

-

He knows what it will do if he steps on the spiral, but he can't help it. It's calling to him. They're screaming in his mind, pleading for him to wake them up. They know, in some part of their comatose minds, who they are and who they were, and they want so badly to wake up and free themselves.

So he steps forward onto the spiral. He'll be able to tell Magnus that he didn't know what it would do. She won't know he's lying.

It makes his head hurt to stand on the spiral as the mechanisms are activated and the women react to the fluid draining away. He thinks he'll faint, but he focuses on their need to wake up and stays on his feet.

And just like he planned, he tells Magnus it was an accident. And just like he planned, she believes him.

-

As soon as she looks at him, he knows who she is. when she pulls him close, he knows she recognizes him as kin-friend. Just like Elliot, all those years ago.

And he senses them, and recognizes them. He knows they're as old as they say; their blood feels older than their faces, just like Helen's. But he can't tell them that, or explain to Helen how he knows. If he explained to them, he'd have to admit that they killed, that they're considered property; and that would make their wish for freedom impossible to achieve. If he explained to Helen, that would mean that he's given up any chance at being normal, and he hasn't. Not just yet.

That doesn't happen until they realize he's been lying.

-

They're in the air spinning, and the force of _whatever_ they're doing is pounding him into the ground. He doesn't want any help dealing with it just yet, though. His awareness makes him sick at times like this, but it means he has a better chance than anyone else at helping them.

One of them--he can barely see the white dresses anymore, the force is making him so dizzy, let alone tell them apart--says clearly, "You lied."

He could protest, say he was wrong, but he would be lying then too, and they would know it. He's fallen to his knees at some point, and he only notices when he reaches for the floor and it's right there. He can barely see, he can taste blood, and he's sure the physical force of this must have broken bones by now.

Then they're falling, and he's looking at Helen and saying weakly, "I had everything under control".

-

They're leaving.

Part of them is triumphant. Part of them is plotting. Part of them is breaking. And he thinks he'll fall apart right there just listening to their agony at returning to their captors.

But if he says anything, he goes with them. Or at the very least, the Kabal comes back later to get him. He's not as useful as they are, but damned if he isn't useful. And he can feel the hunger of the Kabal member ahead of him washing over him like an acid bath. So he doesn't say anything. He'll hate himself for it later.

-

He's going to leave. He still won't tell Helen, though. He's packing what he kept here (it's more than he'd thought), ready to leave. His eyes are wide and staring, his hands shaking so badly he can barely fold his clothes to fit them in his bag. He probably looks like he's in shock. He was actually diagnosed as such once, when he was barely out of high school and there was a murder right across the street from him. Betrayal and death and people breaking do that to him.

Betrayal.

His hands still for a moment. His patients. He needs to stay for them. They need him. They count on him to be there. If he leaves and comes back... it's taboo. He knows that.

But right now, he should be a patient himself. Right now, he can't stand to be in the same room as any of them. They're so alien his brain can't filter any of the noise he gets from them. Just two of them in the room makes it sound like someone turned an entire Battle of the Bands up to eleven.

Of course, sound isn't really an accurate way to describe it. And focusing on ways of describing his awareness is a good way to set his hands on autopilot long enough to finish packing and pick up his bag.

He ducks out of the room and leaves, careful to avoid the nearing sense of HELEN.

He won't come back until this... whatever it is... is gone, or at least under control.

He's one person. He can't handle knowing all this.


End file.
